


you, always you

by lando_cal_rice_ian



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: F/M, Muslim Character, muslim reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2019-10-08 04:39:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17379731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lando_cal_rice_ian/pseuds/lando_cal_rice_ian
Summary: unsure of how to handle his crush on the muslim girl in his class, damian finds himself falling more and more in love even as he continues to make a fool of himself in front of you





	1. part i.

**Author's Note:**

> TUMBLR REQUEST: Hi, I have this idea but I can’t write to save my life so I was wondering if you could do a thing where Damian Wayne falls for a muslim and is unsure of what to do so he ends up making a fool of himself but turns out she really likes him too so they decide that they will wait until they are older to see if they still love each other, and if they do (THEY DO, THEY REALLY DO), they get married or get together or smthn???

**reader is a female muslim (hijabi) of any ethnicity &  the ages of both damian and the reader range from high school students, to young adults throughout the fic  &  also, if in reality you, like me, don’t know arabic, in this fic you do ayyy (’cause you’re a multilingual rich kid so yeah)**

**** but please, everyone’s more than welcome to read this, no matter their religion or atheism or ethnicity or gender~ xx ** **

** if you’ve watched K3G, you know that scene where pooja gets ridiculed for having oily hair? NOT NICE. so the reader is wearing oil to school and damian’s gonna love it k.  **

** and damian’s going to love that reader is muslim too – because if a person doesn’t respect who you are, drop them boo, they ain’t worth it and they sure as hell don’t deserve you~ **

** thanks for reading, my loves! xx **

 

**UNEDITED**

* * *

 

The smell of jasmine caught him off guard. Its scent was the first thing that made him notice you. Most of the other students smelled like expensive perfume or cologne; a cloud of designer names he cared little for, despite wearing some himself. And so, it came as a bit of a surprise, seeing a laughing girl rush past him, a trail of sweet jasmine following in the air, almost soothing, as if he were back with the women in the League who would put jasmine-scented oil in their long dark hair.

Damian shifted in his seat, casting a glance over his shoulder to note where you’d sat down – two desks behind him, with a friend beside you, and another in front. The weather in Gotham was particularly lovely, something Pennyworth had remarked on while driving him to the Academy that morning, and through the windows spilled sunshine, bathing you in a glow as you smiled at your friends.

 _Interesting,_ he thought. He’d seen you before – there were perhaps four other hijabis in school, and two other Muslim girls who didn’t wear a scarf, and so it wasn’t all that difficult to pick you out in the crowd. He’d just never bothered to heed you, before; as the two of you had never shared a class.

For a few seconds, it was just him looking in your direction, noting the angle of your smile, the way it lit up your face, how it pushed up at your cheekbones and crinkled your eyes, and the shape of your face accentuated by the black hijab that smothered as well as it could the jasmine oil in your hair. Then, your eyes turned to him, and your smile wavered in confusion, and, nonchalantly, Damian glanced away.

The bell rang and the teacher glanced up from her laptop. She rose, grabbing a stack of papers, and began to hand them out to pass back. As Damian turned in his seat, huffing to himself, he saw you lean forward and poke your friend, engrossed in her phone underneath the desk, with a ruler.

“ _Psst_ , Swati.” The girl glanced up, turning around in a hurried daze. A little laugh escaped you. “Calm down. Just get the papers.”

“Huh?” Swati whipped her head around so fast her thick braid would have whacked Damian’s outstretched hand had he been a little closer. “Oh! Thanks, Wayne.”

“You’re welcome.” His father and butler had both schooled him enough on politeness that it at times _did_ make an appearance.

Turning to the front again, he read through the handout as another part of him listened to the whispered conversation behind him, something about getting a phone confiscated, and catching up on new memes taking priority.

It wasn’t until the end of the period that Damian felt that same comfort when you passed by. He was checking through the texts his father’s wards had sent him. Your arm brushed his shoulder as your other friend squeezed in at your side. For a split second, your gazes met.

“Sorry—”

As soon as the apology formed on your tongue, your friends, oblivious to the touch, pulled you out of the classroom.

Damian brushed at the shoulder you touched. _Interesting,_ he thought. When he stood and shouldered his bag, it was not on that side.

* * *

Alfred smiled up at Damian as he descended the stairs towards the Rolls Royce.

“Master Damian,” he greeted, opening the back door. “How was school?”

“The same.” The conversation was similar each time Alfred asked. Perhaps a part of him hoped that if he asked enough, Damian might open up eventually. It hadn’t worked quite yet; though they had at least left behind the animosity he had once had for the butler (and everyone, really) as a child.

Damian got inside the car just as three girls ran past. The glimpse of you was so abrupt that he almost wondered if it was you at all.

A few seconds dragged by.

“Master Damian?” Alfred quirked a brow. Damian looked up at him. “Shall I close the door?”

Damian shrugged. “I’ll close it myself.”

He tugged the door shut and decided he’d make jasmine tea as soon as he got home.

* * *

 

The male locker room smelled of sweat and musk. Damian had endured worse situations before — far worse, as both an assassin and Robin — but it didn’t mean he’d have to accept such conditions.

He was quick even when changing – the first out the door. Frowning, he weaved past a crowd of students around the locker rooms' doors. None of the rich kids of Gotham cared for gym class, except when it allowed them to burn off some pent-up steam.

A game of dodgeball started off the period.

Damian could be... violent. He’d worked on it since meeting his father and become far tamer than before. The first few times he’d played dodgeball, it hadn’t ended well for most of the other kids. For a while after (having been scolded by his father, then reasoned with by Alfred), he had started to spend the game dodging balls (“It’s in the name, Master Damian,” Alfred had said. “It’s not foolish. It’s a part of the game. Just as it is a part of battle.”), waiting until the end to dispose of the last few opponents – making sure not to hurt them.

But, even as a “ _self-important, sore loser of a kid_ ,” as some of his Robin predecessors called him, he’d found winning again and again boring. Sitting off to the side after half the game seemed better than duelling against inferior opponents. The teacher noticed he’d jump in front of balls so wildly off course that it made it obvious what Damian was doing. But, as the son of the most powerful billionaire in Gotham, he did nothing to stop him.

The game was just getting interesting, as more and more kids released their inner frustrations, and Damian decided to play. He was eyeing up the son of a Wayne Enterprises’ Board Member when he noticed a girl running in front of the blond.

A ball was rolling off to the side, and it was comical how desperate you were to retrieve it. It was so amusing, it was cute. Another ball sailed over the line from his side and, just in time, you dove down. Realising it was a girl you had Algebra with, a grin lit up your face, and the two of you shared a good-natured flip-off.

Damian waited. As soon as you had rolled out of shot, he marked his moving target once more, and threw a ball into his chest.

You were quick to search for a target the minute the ball was in your grasp. It soon came to both yours and Damian’s attention that he was the closest one. He raised a brow at you, waiting to see if you would dare throw it at him. In all the excitement, you didn’t really care who you got out. Without much thought, you chucked it as hard as possible at Damian.

 For a second, you thought you’d get him.

Then, Damian raised his hands, and caught the ball.

_Darn!_

With a huff of defeat, you gave an exaggerated pout and shrug. Adjusting your sports hijab, you smiled at him out of good sportsmanship.

To his surprise, a smile pulled at his lips as you rushed off to the bleachers to rest.

* * *

 

Catching up on memes during class got Swati in so much trouble that the teacher swapped her with Damian.

“She’d never do this to a _billionaire’s_ kid,” Swati grumbled under her breath. A sympathetic pout from you calmed her, though.

Damian had no care for where he sat. Nonchalant, he stood to give her his seat. But, as he turned and approached the desk in front of you, he felt his heart begin to beat a little louder. He wasn’t sure what it was that quickened his heartrate, and he willed himself to quell such an inconvenience.

With a courteous nod to you, he sat down.

And, as he focused once more on the lesson, a part of him noted the lack of jasmine in the air. And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t quite stop the disappointment that started to grow in his chest.

Halfway through the period, he heard a small clatter from beside him. A couple seconds passed, in which he could hear soft grunts, and from the muttered non-English words of frustration, he knew it had to be you. In his peripheral, the tip of a shoe stomped on the floor, straining to reach a fallen pencil.

After a while, the sounds stopped, and he felt a little tap on his shoulder.

Leaning over so he could hear you whisper, you noticed for the first time the colour of his eyes – a green, made deeper against the soft golden shade of his skin. He had turned in his chair enough to face you. From the proximity, having leaned closer to get his attention and whisper quietly enough so as not to gain the teacher’s, a warmth began to spread across your cheeks.

“Sorry.” You pointed down at the pencil near him. “Could you please get that for me?”

Damian reached over without a word and picked it up. Your name was etched into it. _[Y/N] [Y/L/N]_.

He held it out, watching how your fingers kept a distance from his hand. But, as he looked up, he saw you smile at him.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

As you were sitting back, you heard him whisper, “ _You’re welcome._ ” Except, to your surprise, it was in Arabic.

You blinked. But he had straightened and was no longer facing you.

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise that he knew the language. But, to be honest, it was an assumption among some that Damian just had a nice tan from all the trips to his dad’s private island in the Caribbean. The thought had never crossed your mind that he might be part Arab. You’d heard him speak Mandarin and Cantonese fluently, along with French and Spanish and a handful of other languages; but never Arabic.

It was nice.

You’d have asked him if he really was Arab… if you had the courage to strike up a conversation with him. He always seemed too closed off. You didn’t want to be a) rejected, and/or b) a bother. So, you just returned to writing your essay – wondering just how much you might have in common with Damian Wayne.


	2. part ii.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TUMBLR REQUEST: Hi, I have this idea but I can’t write to save my life so I was wondering if you could do a thing where Damian Wayne falls for a muslim and is unsure of what to do so he ends up making a fool of himself but turns out she really likes him too so they decide that they will wait until they are older to see if they still love each other, and if they do (THEY DO, THEY REALLY DO), they get married or get together or smthn??

**UNEDITED**

 

* * *

 

Each time you’d walk past him to sit down, Damian’s breath would catch. He didn’t understand what made his stomach flip whenever you’d laugh or speak or even when you’d just smile at someone else; it was like an instant reaction: as if he were rising in the air, and then falling, his chest would constrict and his stomach heave like on a rollercoaster.

He’d had partialities before. Fleeting attractions, or even some budding respect towards the vigilantes of his age. But never had such, could he call them _admirations_ , been like this — so alike an illness (he had even asked Alfred to test him just in case), and yet as soothing as finding a kindred spirit. The wildest, strangest contradiction. It was _different_ , that was for sure.

Passing papers back became not as much a chore as he had once thought. Gym wasn’t as boring whenever you would be teamed up. Or even in those passing moments when you would be near, and as he carried on with his tasks, your voice would carry in the air and make it light.

Once, after a long day, the teacher suggested a game of tag just for fun, and thought it amusing to choose Damian as It first; but when you ran past while he stalked after some student (who he wasn’t fond of), all laughter and excitement, he had found himself giving chase with a growing bud of amusement.

It felt _weird_.

He had no clue what to make of it.

And he didn’t like not knowing what was going on.

* * *

 It was close to dinner-time when you’d exited the masjid. The sun was setting, casting a soft golden glow where you sat on the curb, waiting for your friend to meet up after her visit to her temple. The other attendees watched from the entrance to make sure you were fine where you sat, a kebab in your lap growing cold, watching cars drive by.

The kebab tasted off as it cooled, but wasting food was an option you didn’t care to choose. Alternating between chewing and reading through your friends’ texts on the group chat (logged on to the Turkish restaurant’s WiFi across the street – the password for which the amicable owner had given you the first time you and your siblings walked in during Eid as kids), you missed the limousine that drove past, its tinted window rolling up in a hurry as a face, one you’d have found to be familiar, ducked behind it.

The traffic light up the street turned red, and the limo stopped, its tail end a few feet further than where you sat, but in a position for the person – Damian, turned in his seat to see if it really _was_ you – in the back to be able to see you through the rear window.

Unaware that you were being minded, you finished off your kebab and called up Swati, tapping your foot on the asphalt.

A sudden rush of voices poured into your ear. Having been in Swati’s car before with all her siblings, you recognised the sound right away.

“Hey!” you muffled out. “I finished my Quran lesson twenty-five minutes ago, Swati! Where are you?”

As Swati apologised again and again, promising that she was in the car and was five minutes from the masjid, you stood to stretch, the breeze catching the long flow of your abaya. You turned, waiting to hear a click in your spine, and just as your eyes turned upon the black limo nearby, the traffic began to move forward, and Damian straightened against the seat.

No doubt, it had been you.

He’d never seen you outside of school, nor in much else but the navy uniform of the Academy. As the wind rippled through your black abaya he had caught a glimpse of bright sneakers underneath, and blue jeans. He leaned his head against the leather and breathed out a long sigh.

Fate seemed to have no intention of allowing him to forget about those reactions he had when seeing you.

Even on a weekend, Fate had brought you close.

“Master Damian,” he heard from the front. “Is everything all right?”

No. He was _confused_. There were feelings awakening in him that he had not quite felt before. Not to this degree. Not for someone so... good.

Damian closed his eyes and focused on the textures of expensive leather against his neck. But still, beneath his eyelids, all he saw was you. A face kissed by sunlight.

“I’m fine,” he grumbled out.

“Wasn’t that [Y/N] [Y/L/N]?” Alfred turned the car into the street heading to The Palisades. “She’s in the Academy, is she not?”

“Mm.”

Alfred glanced at Damian's reflection in the rear-view mirror, and it took all of his willpower not to smile at the sight of the teenager slumped as if drained. He’d seen Bruce like that far too many times to not know what was going on.

“Ask her what she likes to eat, will you?” Alfred looked once more just to catch Damian’s reaction.

He opened an eye, looking in Alfred’s direction. “Why?” His tone was a little _too_ careful.

“Oh, if ever she is invited to the manor, for a gala perhaps, I’d like to make her favourites. Just so she might come back.”

Damian sat up, leaning forward, face trained into  nonchalance. “Why would she be coming back to the manor?”

Alfred smiled. A beat of silence passed, but no words were needed.

“For another gala, of course,” he at last responded. But his smile said otherwise.

Damian seemed to have frozen. Gaze intent, and just as distant, he stared through the open divider and out into the front, as cars stopped and went, and the city soon gave way to expanses of private land. More and more, a flicker of a thought grew and grew, taking shape, and it came to life as a warm dream. Him and you, hand in hand, stepping into the manor as...

_Oh. Oh no._

Damian gripped the side of the car as if to anchor himself.

It started to dawn on him. He realised what it was, what had been plaguing him with such nausea and breathing problems.

It wasn’t just another fleeting attraction.

This was what his peers and elders called... _a crush._


	3. part iii.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AY YA'LL HEAR THOSE WEDDING BELLS RINGING? MASHALLAH! IT'S YOUR MFING WEDDING, ANGELS!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let’s be real… the only reason my brain let me finish this is because it doesn’t want to study for exams. little bitch.
> 
> anyway! we’re here, angels! it’s the end! thank you so much for reading, and lots of love to you all! xx

In spring came the smell of coconuts. Faint though it was, Damian focused on nothing else when he chanced upon it in the lab. Evenings with his mother, when neither he nor she were assassins, just a woman and her son, had been rare; but he was reminded of them then: Talia and her guarded laugh, the coconuts she’d offer in the hot summer nights, its taste sweeter than the bitter stories she’d share about the world, and, as the hours would pass and the dark wane, his mother’s calloused fingers that brushed his curls from his forehead were the gentlest of memories he had from the mountain.

It came as a surprise when he spotted you at the workbench behind his. Chemistry wasn’t a period you shared. Jamel, his lab partner, had his seat pushed back, elbow supporting his weight where he leaned to chat with you. It was he who first spotted Damian, returning to the conversation after a half-hearted wave – though not on bad terms, the two weren’t much fond of one another. This action caught your attention, and, as Damian came to sit at his seat beside Jamel, you softened into a welcoming smile.

“Hi.” The pen you’d been writing answers with for Jamel clattered against the benchtop. Jamel pushed himself back and forth on the back legs of his chair, gaze flickering between the two of you. 

You hesitated for a moment, unsure if Damian Wayne was who you had begun to think he was, but, even if he wasn’t Muslim, you wanted to wish him a prosperous month. “Ramadan Kareem.”

Jamel’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Oh fuck. I forgot.”

Damian shot him a withered look. He hadn’t fasted since moving to Gotham, though Alfred had tried to integrate what culture he’d been familiar with as a child into his new home; but a part of him missed waking before dawn to sit with his grandfather to take Suhur, that he often found himself following a few other traditions during the month: including, not cursing. At least, not in front of other practicing Muslims.

You didn’t seem to mind Jamel’s language though. As if you were used to it. Damian’s answer came a little late, his mind instead busy wondering if the two of you were friends (he’d never envied Jamel before… until now).  

“Ramadan Mubarak,” he nodded after a few seconds.

Smiling once more, this time wider, you turned to fish through your backpack, taking out a little container that you attempted to hide from the teacher’s view. As inconspicuously as possible, you handed it over to him, his name written neatly in Arabic on the top.

“They’re dates,” you whispered. “Iranian. My dad bought a lot for Ramadan. I packed a few for the others at school. I hope you like them.”

Damian stared down at the container now in his hand, too transfixed to stuff it in his bag, and as Jamel patted his own bag and said, “I got mine yesterday. Super nice,” the teacher walked past, raising a brow but saying nothing.

A little softly, he said, “ _Shukran_  [thank you],” glancing up to admire your face in the sunlight.

He felt guilt stab at him – he didn’t have a gift to offer in return, at least not now, nor had he ever thought of offering wishes to anyone during Ramadan. He put the container away when a girl came to sit beside you (you were explaining to her how you missed the important experiment this week and were making up for it, skipping another class to do so, as Damian found himself softening at the sound of your voice, that tightness in his chest he had found a sickness now contentment).

His partner was turned almost the whole period, mixing chemicals as he discussed answers with you and your partner, but Damian didn’t dare (to his horror, he was not a chicken, and yet…) do the same. You were explaining a chemical equation to him when Jamel, kicking the table to swing back and forth, slipped, not to the floor, but enough to teeter forwards and spill the contents of his test tube onto your hijab.  

Damian grabbed Jamel and pulled him onto all four legs of his chair. The French’s Arabic wasn’t fluent, but he managed a few curse words, forgetting to apologise to instead tell Damian off. Prone to losing his temper, Damian exhaled sharply, abating the harsh words bubbling inside of him. You were gone by the time Damian was finished glaring at Jamel, who, having realised what he had done, now at least looked sorry; without even telling the teacher he was leaving, Damian went in search of the nearest bathrooms.

Not sure why, exactly, yet his feet carried him there. You were slipping out when he arrived, the winter gym uniform now pulled over your skirt, blazer and hijab in hand, hoodie up and tied tight so that just the untouched fabric that had been beneath the hijab poked out.

“Oh,” you blinked up at him, closing the door to the female bathrooms behind you. “Hey.”

“Hi.” He averted his gaze, unsure of what to say, looking back up only when he decided on, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” You lifted the arm which had your blazer and hijab draped over it. “It just got on the end. I thought I’d go tell the office what happened so I don’t get into trouble for being out of uniform.”

“I… uh.”  _What the hell_? Damian didn’t often find himself at a loss for words. A flush seemed to blossom across his cheeks, pink against golden-brown; you couldn’t be sure though, as he turned his head, glancing down the corridor for a long time as he cleared his throat to continue. “Good idea.”

You smiled, beginning to walk past in the office’s direction. “Thanks for the confirmation.” There was a teasing nature to your voice, one he didn’t mind.  

Damian stuffed his hands into his pockets and followed behind at a distance.

“Would you… like me to come with you?” Alfred had told him to ask permission with people, especially girls. Not to assert himself into their business (not that he was bothered with others’ businesses at all).  

You arrived at your locker to put your folded blazer inside, glancing over your shoulder at him with a warm laugh. “Did you get a hall pass from Ms Nguyen?”

He felt sheepish inside – an alien feeling – but he gave a nonchalant shrug. “What are they going to do? Give me detention?”

“Us.” You closed the locker and beckoned him to follow beside you. “I don’t have one either.”

 _Us_ … Damian almost choked on the air.  

Despite the invitation to walk at your side, he remained at a distance there, side-by-side, but not quite. But it didn’t feel as if there was air between you. You’d never felt closer to him before.

“Jamel didn’t mean to,” you said into the silence (a comfortable one, for once). “It was an accident.”

Damian couldn’t help but feel irritated – not out of jealousy, rather, he’d been lab partners with him since the beginning of the year, and found his attitude a bit irksome. Then again, he found almost everyone a little bit irksome.

Except for you.

“You’re nicer about this than I would be.” He stared ahead; in his peripheral he noticed you look at him.

“We’ll wait and see. I’ll spill some on you once we get back.”

He had a nice smile. You ducked your head to hide a blush of your own.

The office was quiet during this period. Damian held the door open for you, and hung back while you explained to the Headmistress what happened. When you returned from her personal office, you gave him a thumbs up.

“We have detention for not having hall passes.”

Damian’s face remained impassive, save for the flicker of dissatisfaction in his eyes. He heard you laugh as you walked out the door, and he followed, nodding in thanks to the office ladies, before fixing you with a questioning expression.

“I’m just kidding. It’s all good.” You held a finger to your lips. “She doesn’t even know you’re out here. I’m not a snitch.”

At your grin, Damian shook his head, his own face brightening with amusement. You continued to walk backwards, not that you’d admit to it, but you were a little lost in his presence, the kindness he’d shown a pleasant surprise that, in a split second, made you want to be close to him. 

To think, you’d never spoken before this year. And it was almost coming to an end.

You were afraid of the feeling in the pit of your stomach. Damian waited while you put your hijab into your locker as well, and, as you followed behind him afterwards, you couldn’t help but notice his curls, how the waves flowed to the base of his neck. But it wasn’t his apparel that made your heart beat so fast. It was just… him.

And the thought of your parents stilled the fantasies in your head. Now was not the time for romance, and such thoughts were just trouble. So, you returned to class to finish the experiment, and didn’t look at Damian again.

* * *

 

Of course, he noticed. How could he not? You weren’t quite as open around him, smiles hesitant, greetings and goodbyes so soft he sometimes didn’t hear them. You’d acted so uncomfortable when he gifted you a new hijab after what happened, in thanks for the dates. It made Damian wonder what he had done wrong – surely, he must have done something. Was it because he hadn’t been fasting? Or that he smacked the basketball out of your hands a little too hard during that one gym class? Was it just him, who he was as a person?

Alfred noticed the shift in him too. He wasn’t just quiet, and though he was often a brooding child and teen, there was an air of, gosh, what was that…  _melancholy_ , thought the butler?  

He was dropping Damian off for his Algebra exam when the boy, lost in thought, stepped out of the Rolls Royce and collided with a girl. The girl almost lost her footing, but recovered, turning in shock towards him. Damian blinked.  

Alfred recognised you in an instant – as did Damian (of course). Your smile a bit awkward, you apologised, just as Damian began to apologise as well (oh, what strange music to Alfred’s ears), before you ran to catch up with three friends at the top of the stairs. Damian glared down at the ground, his silence heavy with unspoken words.

Alfred reached out to adjust Damian’s askew bag. It only solidified how deep down he’d sunken into himself when he didn’t brush the butler off.

“Master Bruce and Miss Talia were a surprising match.” Damian stiffened at his words. But remained to listen to them. “But they were a match. [Y/N] [Y/L/N] is not your mother, however. She’s a good girl. Give it time, Master Damian. Give it time.”

He didn’t bother to rebuke him for assuming his feelings. In truth, Alfred was right. And it was Ramadan, after all. Damian didn’t care to speak such sharp words, so, he nodded towards Alfred, and went to sit his exam.

* * *

 

He hadn’t expected this: the first-floor drawing room was a sudden splash of colour, smelling of exquisite foods Damian hadn’t even thought Alfred knew how to make. There were three students sitting eating already. Damian entered, suddenly out of place in his own home, and accepted their embraces.

“Eid Mubarak,” said Jamel, kissing either of his cheeks.  

Damian, a little dumbfounded, for he hadn’t expected such tenderness from the boy, returned his wish, following with a hesitant pat on his shoulders.  

He was pulled into a game of Jenga when a few others arrived. His brothers were among the guests, Jason carried Tim in, the latter brother’s complaints halting when he saw the relaxed state of the party, and Dick ran in to give them all hugs. Their shouting almost made Damian miss you walking in. Had it not been for the brilliant pink of your dress, he would not have glanced towards the door.  

You were close to Dick, who, being Dick, immediately turned to greet you. He clasped your hands as he wished you a happy Eid, his jubilation infectious, to which you matched his wildness, the two of you shaking your hands so ridiculously that Damian wondered if they’d fall off. Jason and Tim greeted you, albeit a lot more soberly, then you went around embracing the girls who had come to celebrate.

His group was the last that you approached. Settled near the back of the room, the congregation was all but rambunctious over the Jenga blocks stacked on the coffee table, and it was solely him who noticed you. He offered a smile, tentative though it was; and you returned it with one just as hesitant.

“Eid Mubarak,” you shouted over the others, gaining shouts of Eid Mubarak in return. The girls got up to hug you, kissing your cheeks, before re-joining the game.  

You were holding something, Damian realised. He’d been so caught up in your mere presence that he hadn’t seen the box when you entered. You smiled at him, a little less awkward this time, and Damian stood, not caring much for Jenga anyway, weaving around the others to stand before you. 

“Eid Mubarak.” This, a soft wish, was just for him. The box was pink as well, a shade darker than your pastel dress, but lighter than your hijab. He took it when you held it out to him. “Sweets. My grandmother made them.”

“Thank you.” Damian would have told you gifts were unnecessary, but he knew the gesture was a tradition. The others had not come empty-handed either. He was surprised, however, that they had come at all – especially you, who had avoided him for some time.

He glanced towards Alfred, who was contemplating the design of streamers closeby a little too keenly to not be suspect. “Come,” said Damian, “I’ll get you a drink.”

“ _Shukran_.”  

Lemonade in a champagne flute, halal jelly in shot glasses: the amusement was sweet on your face. Damian held the flute out for you to take, and in that moment, your fingertips brushed his. It wasn’t an electric feeling, rather a soft warmth that spread from the fleeting touch. Up close, you noticed his irises, the green overcome from his pupils, so dilated that the breath caught in your throat.  

Seconds passed. Or was it minutes? You couldn’t be sure. The “Cheers,” that you uttered felt weak, though it was enough to break him from his own daze.

He poured himself some, and felt alive when you smiled, holding your flute out to be clinked. Neither of you drank, just stared at where the flutes touched.  

The manor was often so quiet. His brothers were loud, sure, as was he when they deigned to irritate him, but it seldom was like this. Festive. This was the first time, Damian thought, the first that you’d been inside his home. He’d never bothered to invite people over. Never wanted strangers marching around, disturbing the peace.

But this, this felt nice.

“A new moon,” Alfred had said the night before. “New beginnings.”

“[Y/N].” His accent shifted, and in Arabic he whispered, “forgive me. I cannot imagine how this must sound to you. How forward this is. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. So stop me whenever you want to. I won’t mind. I…”  

He exhaled, glancing up towards the ceiling.  

In English, a mutter: “Wallah, this is hard.”

Two girls walked up to get more lemonade, and Damian stood aside. To his surprise, you followed. Expression gentle, those features he had admired the first time you ran past him, he admired again. He felt his face become hot. He wondered if you knew what he was about to admit. The fear of your answer made him falter a moment. But, with no trace of aversion in your gaze, Damian felt his resolve return. 

In Arabic his voice was much softer. You admired it, how warm it sounded, familiar, it drew you closer. “[Y/N], I… I like you. I like you a lot. I have for some time. I… didn’t know how to deal with my feelings. How to tell you. If you’d… dislike me for it. I know things are complicated. I understand if you don’t return my feelings. I hope, honestly, I just really hope we can be friends.”

His gaze was steadier than his heart; he’d looked into your eyes, nothing but sincerity in his own; almost falling silent before the flickering flames of the fireplace that reflected in yours.  

What responses you could give were nothing but mismatched words in your head. God alone knew the truth. You’d tried to hide it, at times even lied to yourself that you didn’t feel them, because, god, you liked him so much. So much that it hurt. 

What spurred you to take his free hand you didn’t know. There were callouses there, unusual on the skin of a billionaire’s son. A scar or two, as well, that your thumb traced. The warmth of his skin drew the words to match, become truth, and you found you didn’t want to lie about them, not now, not ever. 

“I like you too, Damian.” Not even caring if the others say, if they heard. Some of them knew Arabic too; but this was something you two shared now, and it didn’t matter, these words were for him and him alone. 

“But… we’re so young. We just finished our junior year. I,  _wallah_ , I really like you.” You shook your head. “This feels so weird – I’ve never liked someone like this before.”

No matter how much he wanted to, Damian didn’t turn his hand to hold yours. He pulled his hand from under yours as he walked backwards, nodding towards a more private area. Alfred had set up a dancefloor at one side of the room; but for now, the music wasn’t one for dancing, so no one bothered the two of you where you sat on the floor. It was you who scooted closer, not too much, your knees were a mere breadth away from touching.

“We can wait. If you want.” Damian patterns on the floor, abashed. But when he said, “I’ll wait. For you, I will,” there was nothing except conviction. “When you feel it’s right, we can get engaged. I’ll talk to your parents. My father will love you. I’m sure of it. Or… if you don’t feel the same in the future, that’s all right. I just want you to be happy.”

But, in that moment, you knew: you’d be happy with him.

“It’ll be you. I’ll still like you.” You were sure of it. “Always you.”

* * *

 

In the summer after your college graduation, you admitted to your parents that you loved Damian Wayne. The conversation was tense; though your parents liked him as a person, they knew he didn’t practice Islam.  

“He respects me for me.” It was your mother who first softened. “He loves me for me. Muslimah and all. And I know, I swear I do, that our life together will be wonderful. Inshallah.”

It took a while for your father to accept the news. He didn’t stop you from seeing him though, and even allowed your mother to chaperone some of your meet-ups (in fact he preferred when she did, he lived for the gossip). He trusted Damian, and that trust only grew when he started getting to know him, and, he warmed to the idea of your marriage. 

It wasn’t until autumn that you did wed. Throughout the rest of high school and during college (despite the long-distance) you’d been close friends; but you still wanted to date before being married. They were simple dates, sometimes chaperoned, sometimes not. Whenever Alfred came along for picnics, he sat alone, watching the two of you chase each other around like kids in gym class. Even your mother didn’t mind when you’d tease him, or reach out to hold his hand. 

Damian kissed your hands as he stood across the threshold of the manor, you walked inside and into his arms, at last husband and wife. 

“You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me,” he murmured into your hair, kissing the top of your head. “You’re my home, [Y/N].” 

And he was yours. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ramadan kareem: to wish someone a generous, blessed ramadan  
> ramadan mubarak: happy ramadan  
> eid mubarak: happy eid (like merry/happy christmas~)
> 
> stay tuned, might edit soon~


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